Forget the politics. Forget if you’re red or blue or a different color altogether. Becoming, by Michelle Obama speaks to the part of us that’s beyond that, to the humanity at our core. This is not so much a book about being a Former First Lady of the United States, but much more so a book about the incredible and inspirational story of a girl who could have been (and could still be) any of us—a girl who grew up not having much, who faltered and second-guessed herself, and who took the long way ’round to live a remarkable life.
He only had time to grab his son and run. Together, they ran with the clothes on their back and their photo identification cards stuffed hastily in his pocket. They didn’t even have time to say goodbye.
Then again, there wasn’t much to say goodbye to. Behind them was fire, merciless and consuming, devouring each house like a starving dragon. Behind them were bodies, riddled with bullets, each hole dripping bloody dreams and hopes. Behind them were the graves of his wife and daughter, the screams of their last moments forever playing in his ears like a broken record.
“I can’t believe you’re serious about doing this. What if people see you?”
“That’s what the mask is for.” He pointed to the white mask already secured on his face, his identity hidden behind an oversized smile, red cheeks, and a wide black mustache.
“And if they decide to shoot you first and ask questions later?”Read More »
The sun is shining, but I can’t see it.
The dirt’s been scrubbed, but I still feel it.
The room is silent, but I still hear him.
I remember the rocks shredding my skin, but he’s okay.
I remember the blood staining my legs, but he’s okay.
I remember my screams bouncing off him, but he’s okay.
And the world still turns for him.
© Jade M. Wong
“Paku, get your big butt off the floor and let’s go!”
“No.” The 1,000-pound polar bear laid on the ice cap, his wet snout resting on his front paws.
“I’m warning you, if you don’t move willingly, I’m going to use force.”
Paku opened one dark brown eye, scanned my 5’1″ petite frame, and let out a derisive snort. Frustrated, I kicked one of his hind legs.
“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”
— Emma Lazarus —
Since immigration is one of the topics at the forefront of politics nowadays, it seems fitting to share an excerpt from one of the world’s most renowned poems on immigrants. Read More »